Master of Puppets
by Kazexx
Summary: Abruptly, L falls ill, and Light resorts to taking care of him. But what happens when L seems to be going out of his mind, and who's sending him threatening phone-calls? Some yaoi. I suppose you could say there's LxLight, but...
1. Prologue

_All right. So this is my first major fanfiction not having to do with cross-overs._

_This one, I think, is gonna be FUN._

_Anyhow, disclaimer, yadda yadda._

_DISCLAIMER; I don't own any of the characters from Death Note. I let_

_some creativity fall over A's appearance, and B's before he started acting as_

_L, as well. I don't even own Death Note, and I make no profit from this_

_fanfiction. I'm just a fan. I OWN NOTHING._

Prologue;

_Master of puppets, I'm pulling your strings._

_Twisting your mind, and smashing your dreams._ -- METALLICA, _Master of Puppets_

Whether he knew it or not, on the borderline between life or death, stood L's greatest

failures.

The first person was just a shadow, a mere shadow that had chased L for as far as he

could go, until at last Kira, the ghost of the world as of late, crossed paths with his

name. The second was a jittery, weak boy who had broken under the pressure, taken

on by the miseries of becoming the world's greatest detective.

Pale fingers traced a circle of sand around the second shadow, red eyes glinting in

the everlong blackness, glittering with glee and malice. As he did so, the jittery

shadow stopped shivering, blanketed by a sheet of calm that fell over the two,

and glanced around at the miles of darkness, which stretched forever on.

The first shadow had wanted to escape, but it has never, under any circumstance, been easy to

kill a human. Not once has the word "murder" been entwined with "easy". Humans

were built to be sturdy beings, and even the murderer himself had known this as the

last minutes of his life ticked away.

The second had made it long enough to escape, and L knew of this, but he'd never

gone to the boy's funeral, nor said anything consoling to his best friend, who'd

gone insane from loneliness, leaving the boy hateful and uncertain about the man

who he'd wanted to succeed for half of his life.

Now he was dead, and L still lived. It wasn't fair. He had pushed him, too hard.

Far too hard for a fifteen-year-old to handle. And the boy, broken and frayed

underneath his religion and fear, pushed himself onto a limb (quite literally), and

tied his death around his throat.

The next morning, the first spirit had found him hanging from the branch of a

tree, with a note pinned into his palm that said "L pushed me to the edge. I can't

do this."

Now he'd promised the first spirit that he would make them both live. As a

Wiccan, he knew a few things about herbs and spells, and in a spirit-world, a line

between life and death, Nothingness, he could make these things work to create

dark magic. True magic.

Rubbing his hands together, the boy spread the sand across the center while his

best friend watched, remembering to tell him if he'd done anything wrong. He'd

grown used to reading lips, he was sure, for each time the ringing of the two worlds

crashing together sounded, he would lose his voice, and all sound would dissipate.

They didn't talk much though, as most of the spirits in Nothingness decided not to.

It angered the winds, they figured, which were rough during the winter-time (or so

the second spirit assumed), and softer during the spring.

There was still not a way to figure out minutes from hours, summer from winter.

It just seemed that every spirit had different names for different things.

These two spirits, however, weren't like the others.

They were geniuses, always planning to escape some way or another. The others

scorned them for this, but they never listened. They couldn't listen. They felt

deaf.

Empty.

Dead, like they were prononced in reality.

At last the circle was finished. There was a line of sand across the center, which

the second had adjusted by throwing another one over it, and spreading the sand

over the edges, carefully tracing two diamonds at the ends.

Their eyes were unlike most others'.

While the first spirit's had always been, even when he was alive, the second one

had only just recieved them whenever he had found out he was dead, from another

spirit who didn't seem to like talking.

He was just as useless as the others, which the two promptly despised and ignored.

There were only a few girls, and considering the lack of light, it was hard to find

out what gender someone was unless they finally talked to you.

The first spirit couldn't see the second, he just knew that he was there, and knew

that he was a male. He was his best friend. Friends, even in death, knew who the

other was, just as the second knew.

There weren't any animals in this place, either.

It was sand for miles and miles -- black sand, and with their altered eye-sight,

all of the spirits could tell what they were doing if they were to draw with the

sand. It would appear as a white high-light. But they could only see in

black-and-white, which the second spirit still abhorred.

He would've asked the other to leap to the side as he moved a few grains

of sand around, but then was when he remembered they were transluscent;

Figures that couldn't be physically reached.

He also hated _this_, but chose to keep to himself anyhow.

He wouldn't be reminded of his troubles when he walked through crowds of

the living if he didn't talk.

Moreover, he'd only spoken just a few minutes ago, to explain his plan to his

red-eyed companion, who he was certain was there.

Let me explain: you don't have to eat or sleep or drink or excerise when in

Nothingness, for there's simply no heart in your body. Or, not a beating heart.

It didn't matter to the second spirit, after all.

His friend had never really had a "heart" in the first place, or he just didn't use

it.

He was growing tired of this.

He wanted to stop, stretch out, and go to sleep. Yet there was work to be done.

Knowing it was there, he mentally grasped his friend's hand, and they both

walked into the center of the circle, upon which he whispered inaudible words,

and the circle lit up.

It had worked!

Flames spread about them, engulfing them, until they were both falling into a world

of darkness, much like the one they'd gotten so used to. There weren't any other

spirits fumbling about in the darkness, though, and a numbing feeling crept through

the spineless spirit, when he gazed upon dark velvet skies overhead.

At last!

They were alive!

He actually realised that he could see his friend, the messy-haired adult beside him.

Like siblings, their pale fingers were entwined.

Being older, his companion's fingers were longer, and he was taller, an obvious

sign that he'd lived longer than the first spirit.

A straw doll had materialised in his friend's hands, and he blinked warmly down at

it, like an old childhood companion, or a small animal.

In the first spirit's hands a doll lay, as well, and he smiled triumphantly,

remembering the day he'd first met his friend, his mother's death-date.

His father had left him and his mother when he was three, so there was no point

trying to remember the man. He was a ghost of long memory's past, and he

didn't plan on dwelling on his history right now, anyway.

All that mattered was that, finally, they were alive again, and revenge flittered

in both of their clock-work hearts.


	2. Chapter One

_If you're seeing this, you must've given me three reviews. Thank You, Thank You, Thank You. :3_

_I'm having fun writing this. Especially since I can listen to my music. x3 Think of this as a_

_I'm-Back present. 8D Anyhow, more DISCLAIMEH._

_DISCLAIMER; I don't own any of the characters from Death Note. I let_

_some creativity fall over A's appearance, and B's before he started acting as_

_L, as well. I don't even own Death Note, and I make no profit from this_

_fanfiction. I'm just a fan. I OWN NOTHING._

Chapter One;

The velvet sky was just beginning to untangle as an auburn-haired teenager slowly stood up, stretched,

and glanced over at the insomniac that slept, for once, soundly beside him. He shrugged, rattling the chain

linked to a cuff around the man's wrist, and waited for the detective to finally awaken.

An hour later, he finally did, uncurling to sit up with his knees drawn into his chest.

There was a folder underneath him, which he pulled out and held with his fore-finger and thumb, reading

the contents.

His eyes shot open, wider than they had ever been.

It was merely the folder of the first victims that Kira had killed, for he heard the man read aloud

"Beyond Birthday", and then the other victims. The one he'd first said echoed in the teenager's ears,

and he realised, shortly, that the other was repeating the name.

Why?

"Ryuzaki, have you had a nightmare?"  
Indeed, it was fairly obvious he had.

His eyes were extremely wide, and his knees shook. He had never known him to act this way, and in

the event he did, he would always try to calm him down, simply because it was annoying. It was only once

or twice every week that the detective slept, but during this week, he had seen the man fall asleep

quicker than he knew was normal for him. Yesterday, in fact, he had fallen asleep at five AM, and woken

at six. It was really thirty-minutes every day, and it was abnormal for him.

"Light-kun... No, I haven't."

His eyes read otherwise, bulging and blood-shot, and his teeth chattered though he tried to hide

it.

There were few things Light knew Ryuzaki feared, but he wasn't complaining of burning, like he

would when he dreamt of fire (he would tell Light sometimes), or the existence of Shinigami. He didn't

even _mention_ either of the things, which Light would've guessed he would mention at least the latter,

a more frequent nightmare whenever Ryuzaki slept.

There was another folder on the night-stand by the bed, which Ryuzaki pushed away like it was obscence.

Light had half a mind to ask the man what was wrong, but he kept himself quiet.

"January," Ryuzaki whispered, his usually-monotone voice raspy, "the twenty-first. Two thousand four."

Come to think of it, he'd heard Ryuzaki have a coughing fit yesterday, when he was trying to sleep.

Perhaps he was getting sick?

Light often had nightmares when he was ill, but for Ryuzaki it wasn't frequent. He didn't have a very

"earthly" immune system, as far as the teenager was concerned. In fact, it was extremely _un_earthly. He

hardly ever got ill, so why now, if he was?

"Ryuzaki, come here." he said, pointing his index-finger at the bath-room, across from the bed.

Ryuzaki sighed, but obeyed the younger man as he got up and shuffled off into the bath-room, Light

at his heels.

As his superior stood in front of the mirror, he fumbled through the drawers of the wardrobe until

he finally found a digital thermometer, which he ordered Ryuzaki to put under his tongue.

Begrudgingly, he agreed.

A minute later, it beeped, and Light took it out from under the detective's tongue, his eyebrows raising.

"I knew you were sick! Why didn't you tell anyone?" he demanded, shoving the thermometer at

Ryuzaki.

He didn't answer, of course, just stared at it as if he really didn't care.

Inside, Light knew he didn't. He was selfish, which made no sense when he realised that Ryuzaki

probably didn't care at all about his health.

"Answer me," he growled, dominantly.

"Because the Kira Case is much more important than my own health." Ryuzaki answered. "And

I don't want to speak right now. My head aches, Light-kun."

"I should wonder why. You should've told someone, still. You need to rest. God, sometimes I feel

like your mother."

That was not something he wished to admit.

And yet, he did.

He probably shouldn't have, but a slip of a tongue could reveal a lot whenever one didn't want it to.

"You needn't feel paternal, Light-kun. I am twenty-five."

"I'm well aware of that fact, but you should tell someone when you're sick."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"You hardly ever do."

"We are not talking about my sleeping schedule. And I'm not calling off the Kira Case.

Now, please leave me at peace."

"Suit yourself. But if you end up in a morgue, I won't be crying for you."

"I have a cold, Light-kun. I will not _die_."

The detective sighed and left the bath-room, dragging Light along behind him.

Ryuzaki abruptly paused, grasping onto a door handle to steady himself. He was dizzy, wasn't he?

Classic symptoms of Influenza. Light wasn't ignorant.

"It's not a cold. You and I both know that." he muttered, darkly.

His superior glanced up at him, his face expression-less as always, but Light could tell that he wouldn't

be able to say anything going towards that.

Taking three deep breaths, Ryuzaki turned the door-knob, and they both walked into the room that had

been made head-quarters, where Light's father, Soichiro

Yagami, patiently waited.

Ryuzaki, without picking his feet up, trudged across the floor

to his swivel chair, where he crouched with his knees pinned to his chest again.

When Light had first met the man, he had told him it was because if he sat normally his deductive

ability would decrease by forty percent. Light would've scoffed, but since Ryuzaki was L, the world's

greatest detective, he had decided not to.

He stared over at Ryuzaki, who was nibbling on his thumb-nail when the door swung open, announcing

someone else's arrival.

Matsuda Touta, the young, immature detective, strode over to Soichiro, who acknowledged him with

a nod, and greeted Light and Ryuzaki, who mumbled absentmindedly "Beyond Birthday,

January twenty-first two thousand four. Los Angeles... he was twenty-one... Backyard Bottomslash,

Believe Bridesmaid, Quarter Queen. No, it's... Believe Bridesmaid, Quarter Queen, Backyard Bottomslash."

Light watched him as he, feverishly, buried his head in his knees. He had absolutely no idea what

the man was talking about. At all.

"Ryuzaki... you look horrible." Matsuda commented, one eyebrow lifted.

"Yeah. He knows." Light said, agitated that the detective insisted they not call off the Kira Case for

now, until he could get better. He didn't care. He even confessed that he didn't.

"Are you sick?" the young detective asked, worriedly.

Light nodded.

"You know he refuses to admit it. He'd never admit it."

"Justice is more important than my own health, Light-kun. Do not question my descision, please."

"I should've questioned you about the hand-cuffs, and about what you're _mumbling about_."

"I--" Ryuzaki was cut off as he succumbed to another coughing-fit, retching.

That was their cue to go the bath-room, wasn't it?

Light sighed, expecting Ryuzaki to suddenly get up and head for the bath-room, which he

automatically did, seeming to forget about the chain linking them.

In a few moments, L was in a stall, and Light was waiting outside as he heard sounds of

vomiting.

Now he couldn't hide the fact that he was sick, and Light could at least _try_ and stop feeling

paternal to the man, but it didn't matter whenever he tried, because he never could. Ryuzaki

was, in fact, older than him, but he acted like a child, so Light practically treated him like one.

When the wretched sounds finally ended, he heard Ryuzaki slump onto the floor, breathing

heavily.

"Hey, Ryuzaki, if you tell the task force that yes, you _are_ sick, I'll go get you some aspirin."

Light called into the stall, smirking.

"No, Light-kun. I am fine."

"Then why did you just vomit?"

"Food poisoning."

"That's hard to believe, Ryuzaki. You've got the Flu. And you need to admit that before someone

else gets sick. And I swear, if that person is me, I'm not going to be amused."

The accursed sounds of vomiting began again, leaving Light bored, and above all unamused.

It ended a few moments later, and they both waited fifteen minutes to see if Ryuzaki was done

being sick, which he was.

Light had him wash his hands, which Ryuzaki told him he would've done even if Light hadn't

told him to, and the duo returned to head-quarters.

"Ryuzaki,"

Hearing Watari's voice, L and Light whirled around, though L did so more slowly as not to

provoke the need to vomit again.

Staring up at the elderly man's face made a chill crawl up L's spine, one that he ignored

firmly. Watari -- Qullish Wammy -- was L's most-trusted companion, also the most

eldest. He remembered when he was eight, upon the time his parents both died in L's

first case, the Winchester Mad Bombings.

It was from then on that he stayed who he was -- the world's greatest detective.

"I know that you're in the middle of the Kira Case, however... it would appear there is

a call for you, and... it's from Wammy's House."

"Is that so?" L tilted his head to the side, like a feline, like he always did when he was

intriuged.

"I just don't know who it is. They're refusing to say their name. I actually believe it is

two people, but they will not state their identites. Do you think this is a danger to you?"

L thought for a moment, then shook his head.

"No. Please transfer their call to my laptop, if you will."

Watari did as instructed, and L practically flew back to his swivel-chair, anticipating

the call. Mello? Matt? Near? No, they would never call him unless it was an emergency.

A clicking sound came from his computer, and he waited for someone to speak.

At last, they did.

_"Hello, Lawliet-kun."_

Their voice was disfigured, but L could hear past the scrambler. He knew who the voice belonged

to... he just didn't believe it.

L would've covered the speakers upon hearing his last name, for fear Light would remember it.

This person knew his name.

His _name_.

Why did they have to seem so familiar? Why was this haunting him when last night,

he'd dreamt about this? Dreamt about two shadows, in the darkness, drawing a circle with

their blood.

And the voice that had spoken in that dream was parallel to this. And with the same Irish accent,

he realised.

"Who is this?" he finally asked, his voice low. He didn't have the scrambler on, for he saw

no point to it right now. His number couldn't be traced, and nor could this other. That was all that mattered.

_"Certainly you would remember your own successors."_

L tried to pretend they weren't real, but his efforts were failing.

He sighed, and gave in to the voice.

"I don't believe you exist. You are both dead. I am going insane, or this is a horrid

nightmare."

It wasn't.

_"What made you think we were dead? Just because we were both pronounced dead doesn't mean_

_we're both neccesarily in the ground, Lawliet-kun."_

"Stop."

The two voices, now mixing together, persisted.

_"An old friend wants to speak to you. Hang on."_

"You don't exist. You are both dead. You are both dead."

He wanted to yell, but knew he had to keep his composure.

_"That's not true, and you know it. You pushed me too hard, L. Why? Why, L? You wanted me to_

_succeed you. I just wanted my parents back."_

"Stop this nonesense, now. If this is X, I want you to stop. Please."

_"X doesn't bear an accent, L. You couldn't even blame this on Z."_

"No, I cannot... but this doesn't make sense. You both are dead, and you were both found dead

a long time ago. I do not believe either of you exist."

_"We've always been in your thoughts, forever long, right?"_

"You are shadows. You mean nothing to me."

_"Did we mean anything to you when we were "next-in-line", L? You should've mentioned we_

_were prototypes, maybe then we would've left you alone. You pushed us both too hard. I_

_broke under suicide, and your other friend broke under loneliness and insanity. You led_

_us to our deaths, L, like a shepherd would unwanted wolves."_

L stared at the computer screen, which flashed and faded to dark red. A black "B", and a white

"A" were imprinted in the center, calligraphic like his own "L".

He knew what the letters meant, and who was behind them.

He just didn't believe it.


	3. Chapter Two

_8D I'm hoping that the people reading this know what "A" and "B" stand for._

_'Cuz the two people behind the letters are awesome. 3 As you might've assumed (I should hope,_

_that, if you know me, you would've), there /is/ yaoi in this, but it's minor, like kissing and the_

_whatnot. You just won't guess the people it occurs between. I'm not an LxLight shipper, but_

_in some instances, it might seem like it. Whatever floats your boat._

_DISCLAIMEH. (No, that'll never cease to be awesome-sounding.)_

_DISCLAIMER; I don't own any of the characters from Death Note. I let_

_some creativity fall over A's appearance, and B's before he started acting as_

_L, as well. I don't even own Death Note, and I make no profit from this_

_fanfiction. I'm just a fan. I OWN NOTHING._

Chapter Two;

Light watched as Ryuzaki moved quickly to click the "x" in the right-hand corner, shivering visibly.

It was far beyond the great detective to do something like that, and yet it happened before Light's

own brown eyes, and he believed it.

"Watari," Ryuzaki said, glancing up at the elderly man, "please do not allow this person to call back...

and contact the prison in which Beyond Birthday was being held."

"I'll get right on it." his care-taker responded, walking off.

"What was all that about?" Light asked, curious of why Ryuzaki kept repeating something about

the two callers not existing. It was strange for him to say anything like that, to deny someone's existence.

In fact, it was highly illogical.

"It was nothing."

"You knew who was calling. Why didn't you directly talk to them?"

"Because they are not allowed to exist. They are both--" He paused, breathing deeply as if he'd

run short of breath, though Light knew he hadn't. He had reason to believe, fully, that the ill

detective was hiding something besides his illness from the rest of the task force. The teenager just

didn't know what it was, but he wished he did. "Nineteen-ninety seven. That is all that I am saying."

He also heard him whisper, "You would never find his name in the obituaries, however."

What was he talking about?

Was he saying _ghosts_ existed?

"I imagine it was someone -- still alive, of course -- that knew my number calling mainly because

they wanted to trick me, as they always liked to do."

"Whom?" Light prompted, confusedly.

"I cannot disclose whom."

A few minutes later, Watari returned, and another window flicked open on Ryuzaki's lap-top screen.

Speaking into the voice scrambler, he said, "This is L. May I ask where Beyond Birthday's body

was laid to rest?"  
Light pictured the people on the other line becoming very baffled wondering why Ryuzaki was asking

this, but all the same, someone replied, _"Umm... Sir, I hate to sound rude, but you asked that his_

_body be released to Wammy's House... Frankly, I'm glad that psychotic... __**child**__ is gone."_

"I would rejoice with you, however..." L stopped to catch his breath again, and for the first time,

Light spotted beads of sweat forming on his face. "B was one of my successors."

Someone on the other line gasped audibly, and L sighed, his head sinking lower into his knees.

"And B, also... predicted my death."

_"Yeah? He did that to his cell-mate. Poor lad died a year after Birthday predicted it, on the same date_

_he'd talked about. The creep was obsessed with predicting people's deaths... he predicted mine,_

_and two other in-mates who died on the same day he said they would."_

L's eyes narrowed.

"That is strange... the only death he said he couldn't know was his own."

_"What?! He seemed to know when he was going to die. I heard him laughing on the day he_

_finally left us."_

"B's mental state was frayed, officer."

_"Yeah. We knew that. I've got some things to take care of, L."_

"That is fine. I must do something myself. Thank You."

_"Uhh... yeah. I guess."_

Light saw the screen flash when L clicked the "x" again, breaking into another coughing-fit that he

should've known was coming.

"Hey, Ryuzaki. You should really go get some sleep. Like I said, if you want me to, I can go get you

some aspirin."

"I am fine." Ryuzaki argued, tensing when Light put his hand on his forehead for the second time

that day.

"Your fever's increased. If you don't want to start vomiting, I suggest you go get at least an hour."

"I do not trust leaving you alone."

_Fine, stubborn. End up in a morgue. It's not like I care._

"I wouldn't be _alone_, L-- Ryuzaki. If I hadn't made you go to sleep last night, you probably would

be worse than this."

"It doesn't matter, Light-kun. And, I am twenty-five; I imagine that I can take care of myself."

_You need Watari; You've got to admit that._

Light examined Ryuzaki's bony frame for a moment, seeing that he was still shivering -- he had the

chills. Now he couldn't hide the fact that he was sick from anyone, and with his fever higher than it

had been, he would pass out at some point. He couldn't pretend he wasn't in bad condition when

he did, either.

That being said, the man finally lost his balance, grasping onto the edge of the desk to hold himself up, as he'd

done last time when he'd nearly collapsed. Light hated to confess anything like this, but he was actually

_concerned_ for his adversary. He had the risk of also getting sick to deal with, and Ryuzaki wasn't acting

how Light wanted to be _feeling_.

"Beyond's cell-mate died on the day he'd predicted they would, and so did the two other in-mates... could

A have been correct?"

_A? Beyond?_

Light hadn't heard "A" be mentioned yet, and he pondered what -- or whom -- was behind the letter.

He probably couldn't have guessed.

He couldn't even begin to.


	4. Chapter Three

_Chapter Threeeee._

_DISCLAIMMMEHHH. 8D_

_DISCLAIMER; I don't own any of the characters from Death Note. I let_

_some creativity fall over A's appearance, and B's before he started acting as_

_L, as well. I don't even own Death Note, and I make no profit from this_

_fanfiction. I'm just a fan. I OWN NOTHING._

Chapter Three;

Wammy's House. December twenty-first, nineteen ninety one;

"Watari, you wished to see me?"

The voice that spoke was emotionless and monotone, and the pale boy that stood before the

elderly man wore no expression. His voice wore down on his form, as well. The boy was

twelve, but slouched and didn't seem to have proper etiquette as he shuffled behind the man

down the hall-way, into a small, white-washed room, built only for small quantities of people.

This was a private meeting room with orphans whom had just lost their parents or guardians,

in which the great detective L spoke to them.

Most would've found it hard to believe, but L was truly just a twelve-year-old boy, though

polite and understanding for his age. Another boy, only two years younger, sat in front of

him, knees drawn into his chest just as the other had done.

"Hello. I am L." L started, attempting to read the boy's face, though only an expression of

fear lay upon the pale mask.

The boy's hands were stained with crimson, his finger-tips dripping with it, and as L himself

was, he was bare-foot.

"And, what is your name?"

The boy didn't answer, simply too terrified.

"I understand that your mother has just passed away... my sincerest condolences. Perhaps

we should re-try this? I am L, and you are..."

"Beyond." the boy answered, at last. His voice was low, bearing an accent that was

indentifiable only because the boy had been flown from Dublin, Ireland to Winchester,

England.

"Hello, Beyond. As I had heard, you have an excellent intellectual capacity... so I have chosen

you as one of my successors. Your scores have outlasted the other childrens'... yours and A's."

At this, the boy's head tilted, curiously.

L thought he looked like a kitten, small but cautious.

"A is another boy that I have chosen as one of my successors. He will also be your room-mate

here."

As if on cue, another boy entered the room, a brunette whom wore glasses.

L recognised the boy as A, and nodded for him to come closer, which the boy's succesor

automatically did.

"A is a year younger than you." L said, remembering that Beyond -- B, now -- was only ten years old,

and that A was nine.

Wammy's House. November third, nineteen ninety six;

Hearing his door click shut, L glanced up, away from his book. He already knew who it was that

had entered his quarters.

B.

"Hello, B."

"L." hissed the Irish boy as he sidled up behind L's chair. "X and Z have been tormenting A.

Actually, he seemed more shaken up today than usual... is there a reason for that, mister world's

greatest detective? _Tell me_." He sank his finger-nails into L's shoulders, making the seventeen-year-old

wince.

"B, please..."

"You said you'd "put a stop" to it, _Lawliet_. You've not done one thing."

"I've been busy."

"It doesn't matter! The boy's a _Wiccan_, Lawliet. A peace-maker. They should be happy to be

in a pacifist's path! But they take advantage of the boy's religion! They kick him and punch him

knowing he _can't fight back_!"

L's eyes narrowed.

He didn't know about A being a Wiccan, which was a word he hadn't heard in such a long time.

Half of L's family were atheists, except for a few people on his mother's side.

Many of those people were dead, or couldn't be reached.

L himself was a simple atheist.

"B, I cannot--"

B's finger-nails sunk deeper into L's skin, causing him to wince. He'd had enough. The boy was

a minor, but he was trying to _injure _him_ nonetheless_.

He attempted to wriggle out of B's grasp, and when he was free, he rolled onto the floor, upon

which he pinned B down, hatefully glaring into the teenager's subconciously-red eyes.

He was taken aback, it seemed, but he grinned afterward and threw a punch at L's left eye,

knocking him off.

L, still dazed and on the floor, propelled his foot forward, into the side of B's face, to which

the boy stumbled but was able to stand L's blow nonetheless.

While L was still on his back, B got on top of him, to which L found unneccesary, and also

found that he couldn't get away. A horrid move which he'd not calculated, but should have.

B raked his finger-nails along L's cheek, then sank them back into his shoulders.

L grimaced as bloody lines appeared, pouring small trenches down his shirt.

The teenager then leaned in, announcing that he didn't feel well and was going off to bed.

L lay there, looking up at the ceiling as the boy left, silently clicking the door shut another

time.

"What... has gotten... into him...?" he panted, slowly rising to his feet to crawl back into his

chair.

Wammy's House. November sixth, nineteen ninety six;

B had gone too far.

L felt like a depressed teenager, though he'd never let the boy, who'd gotten sick from standing

out in the rain three days before, feel the satisfaction of knowing that.

He hadn't been in L's quarters since their last fight, on the third. Now it was the third day since,

and he was beginning to worry (yes, worry) about the boy.

Quickly he stood up, shuffling out of the room down the hall-way and up the stairs, to the first

room on the left side of the corridor, where he entered and, without picking his feet up, walked

across the floor to the bed, where he found the fifteen-year-old curled up under the blankets.

"B?" L droned, to which a pillow practically flew at his head.

He countered it, not entirely confused but puzzled in a way that was new to him.

"A warned you not to go outside during a rain-storm. This is your fault, not my own."

"You don't understand." came the muffled response. "A's acting strange."

"Strange...? How?"

B, like a kitten, crawled out of the blankets, his head and shoulders showing. He laid his head

on his arms, dark eyes unusually blood-shot, and face far paler than was normal.

"He won't talk to anyone. He doesn't trust anyone. He's been cutting himself, L."

_Why didn't he address me by my last name?_

"He's depressed, B. It is normal for a teenager of his age."

"No!" B's voice abnormally raised itself, and he lowered his head, as if ashamed. "I... A won't

even talk _to me_, L. Only to himself. He's been talking only _to himself_... and he's got a year

left. Just a year."

"What are you talking about?" L asked, watching as salt formed in the pits of the boy's eyes.

"I think... I think he might kill himself. I'm worried about him. I'm hideously worried about him,"

He paused, then continued, "and he's been so paranoid... that's why I was out in the rain.

I was looking for him. On Sunday, he didn't even come back in. So I went out to look for him. I

found him a few hours after you and X left. He did the same thing Monday, which is the

day where I started getting sick and couldn't go out to look for him, and now Tuesday. I'm

worried."

"At some point, he'll come back in."

"_What if he doesn't?_"

"Some orphans his age do not mind spending a night in the cemetary, B. I gave up looking for

the ones that did so a few hours after their disappearance. When Near and Linda argue, I know

that Linda disappears for a day. The last time she did so, it took her until nine 'o five PM the next

day to come back in."

"I didn't know that..."

"Sleep. Maybe your fever will go down."

"Perhaps. This is stress-related, L. It isn't because of the rain."

"Yes, I suppose..."

Wammy's House. December twenty-fourth, nineteen ninety seven;

A had, again, disappeared.

B found himself stressed again, as he'd been the last time, but this time he didn't become ill,

giving him the liberty to go out and look for the boy. He was no doubt in the cemetary,

and when B slipped his shoes on and stepped out, he found the rope, which Linda and the

other girls of her age jumped over during the summer, was missing.

As A was.

A day before, B had notised that the Wiccan's mental state had grown much worse. B's

had, as well, however it wasn't stress. He let himself become so engrossed with becoming

L that he'd started missing the time he could spend sleeping, and dark circles were beginning

to form underneath his crimson eyes.

Sometimes he wondered if A could see what laid beyond that, something neither of them

could see. Not even L could tell B that his eyes were red. Every time he asked what colour

they were, he'd get the reply "brown", unless he asked Z, who would reply "They're purple",

but the older boy was very colour-blind, and couldn't tell him exactly.

B had notised that his eyes were very different. He ignored it, but... whenever he looked

above someone's head, he found their name floating in red letters, and a life-span beneath

that.

And the last time B had seen A, his numbers were going down, lower and lower, until at

last, he only had a day left. This was that day. A was supposed to die today.

B already knew how.

With the rope, and A, missing, he could already guess how A was going to die.

He thought the boy might be a bit stronger than suicide, but it appeared that his deduction

had been wrong.

He raced across the ground on the tips of his toes, as fast as his body was able to go,

until he finally reached the cemetery, where he skidded to a halt.

A wasn't there.

"A!" he yelled, the wind stinging his eyes as he flew back across the fields, to a rather

large oak tree, upon which was strung a rope. A was stretched out on the roots, a note-pad

in the grass and a pencil, which was clutched in his right hand, weaving across the page.

It was the top corner, where B knew a red line was located. A tore this off, not seeming

to see B as he turned in his room-mate's direction.

His eyes were blank, deprived of any emotion. His face contorted in fear, stained with tears

which had been released not too long ago.

"A! What are you doing with that the girls' ro--"

"It's not a rope. It's a noose. And this note is for L." He inhaled slowly, then exhaled

and took a silver pin from his pocket, stabbing it into the center of the note.

B had never known A to protest. And yet, he had. There was nothing his best friend could

do. His numbers were falling, lower and lower, lower and lower, and B felt like he was seeing

the world end.

Lower.

Lower.

Lower.

"Go. You shouldn't have come for me. It's six PM. Don't mind me."

"I _am_ minding you! This is an ignorant descision! What is suicide going to do for you?"

"L won't end it. L won't fricking _end it_, B. So I am. I'm taking it into my hands to end it all.

I need to end the pain. There's nothing L can do. Nothing you can do."

His eyes were red, not like B's, but the pits were red and the rims as well. He'd been

crying a lot, and his numbers were falling lower and lower. As low as they could until

they finally reached zero. Like B's mother's had. Like his father's had. Like his aunt's,

and his uncle's, and his grandparents'.

And worst of all, there was nothing he could do.

Since A's numbers were almost completely gone, there was nothing he would be able

to do. If fate willed B to try and stop him, he would've done it a long time ago, and A's

numbers wouldn't have been decreasing.

"It's fate, isn't it?" A murmured, his voice low and cracked with sorrow.

"What is?" B asked, his own doing the same.

The British teenager glanced up, at the greying skies above. The skies that were about to

mourn all over B again, and wet the grass with their endless tears.

"This. It's all fate. The skies, the darkness, my pain. Mother Nature wanted it to turn

out like this because there's something better for me beyond all of this."

"Yes, A." B whispered, rolling his sleeves up. "You were correct, by the way. L and

I... have been fighting."

"Your deductions were accurate, as well. I've been cutting myself. And L's the cause.

I must thank him for leading me in the direction of fate, though... I'll see you in hell, B."

"Yes... Farewell."

For some reason, B believed he would truly see A once more, in the far, far future.

Then again, for all he knew, he could die tomorrow.

"Good Night." they both said, at once.


	5. Chapter Four

_The last chapter was depressing to write. ;-; Hmph. Well, didn't have another choice._

_Anyhow, the plot's gonna rush on from here, because this is where it /officially/ starts. :3_

_Also, A's gone a bit... insane, for the record. He's not thinking as rationally as he_

_did when he was alive. Kind of like B. In Nothingness, I guess, you lose your sanity_

_or what you originally were, unless you were something like a serial killer, as B was._

_MORE DISCLAIMEH, 'CUZ IT'S NEEDED AND IT'S PROPER AND IT'S AWESOME_

_AND IT'S CUTE. AND I'M HYPER. xDD_

_DISCLAIMER; I don't own any of the characters from Death Note. I let_

_some creativity fall over A's appearance, and B's before he started acting as_

_L, as well. I don't even own Death Note, and I make no profit from this_

_fanfiction. I'm just a fan. I OWN NOTHING._

Chapter Four;

Light could tell Ryuzaki was getting worse, he just wouldn't say anything about it. When he'd placed

his hand on the man's fore-head that morning, it had been on fire. It plainly showed that he was terribly

ill, and he couldn't hide that, being lathergic and unwilling to move. He'd laid in the bed all day, and

hadn't moved until Watari came in, to give him his lap-top, which he'd put in front of the man's face so

that at least he could see it.

From then on, it'd been nothing but silence.

The teenager wanted to converse with the man because the silence was getting boring, and he wasn't

in the mood for that, however, Ryuzaki had told Light from the start that his throat was practically

_burning_, and his face in the same situation. Even Ryuzaki wouldn't lie about that.

"Ryuzaki..."

The man's face, as always, was pale and blank, but his eyes were fixed on something farther off,

something invisible to Light's own gaze. Was he remembering something from long ago? Perhaps...

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there, believing that somewhere in his memories the man

who had spoke had an identity, somewhere, a long time ago. He heard Light's voice, but he didn't

answer. He would've growled an answer, but buried too deeply in his thoughts made him face the

carousel of silence instead of anything else.

If he had to confess, he would say that he missed Wammy's House, even the boy who'd attempted

to kill him more than a few times.

He rolled back his sleeves, for just a few moments, away from Light's eyes, though he tried to pretend

the boy wasn't even there.

Scars lined his wrists, which had been subject to finger-nails at some point, as well as the ones

going up and down his shoulders and his back.

He raised his hand, turning it over to reveal his palm, where there'd been a "B" carved perfectly

into the center, gone away over the years.

It had been there, a long time ago.

And a voice had been screaming, _Yes, Lawliet, scream!_

Lithium and monoxide.

He could remember stinging pain in his shoulders -- someone had been on his back, slashing away

with their finger-nails, digging them in and laughing as L screamed.

He couldn't have prevented it.

He couldn't have even tried.

His attacker, the boy... he was weaker than L, and L could remember that he'd been seventeen, and

the boy on top of him fifteen.

It then came to him.

B.

Beyond Birthday. B was the attacker, his adversary, his opponent.

B was obsessed with winning.

Perhaps now, even in death, the man wanted revenge?

L shook his head, painfully, and struggled to sit up, to find he couldn't.

"Light-kun," he whispered, hoarsely.

_I sound horrid..._

The brunette stirred from his post on the edge of the bed, looking back at the detective with

one eyebrow raised.

"Yes?"

"Could you possibly go get Watari for me?"  
Light nodded, breathing a sigh as he walked out of the room, and when L was sure he was gone,

he searched the history on his computer for any sign of B. After a few minutes of searching (with

Light still gone), he pulled up a folder entitled "LOS ANGELES, California B", and

shuffled through the files, bringing up a picture of a small boy, with black hair like his own,

only it wasn't as messy except for a few strands that fell in the boy's face.

The picture was of Beyond Birthday, and it had been taken a few days before his mother's death.

_He might look the same now... of course older, but nonetheless the same. _he thought, feeling

ignorant for not reading about supernatural instancies, when in this case it seemed entirely

possible that B, or someone posing as him, had come to torment him.

In his adversary's opinion, it was another "game", and this time, B would win.

Because in abecedarian order, "B" was before "L".

When Light returned, Ryuzaki was on his lap-top, still seeming horribly ill, and acting that way as well,

but he was working as hard as he had when he was healthy.

"I couldn't find Watari," he said, bothering to glance only once at the screen.

Instead of the normal Kira Case files, he saw folders with the titles "LOS ANGELES, California B;

CRIME SCENES", or "LOS ANGELES, California B; BEYOND BIRTHDAY".

He had no idea what Ryuzaki was doing, but when he saw the words "Beyond" and "Birthday",

he nodded to himself. The detective had been mumbling about those two words, along

with other odd things, and it was really starting to stretch Light's curiosity.

"I see... there's another case you're working on, isn't there?" he asked, trying to figure out why Ryuzaki,

the great detective L, would work on one case while he's in the middle of another.

"No, Light-kun. This is a case from two thousand one." Ryuzaki rasped, nibbling on his thumb-nail

while again mumbling to himself. "Three years... he spent three years in prison, and...

he should have been in a straitjacket. I should have told Misora that... I should have told her that I had

reason to believe Beyond lost all of his right mind after A's suicide."

Without warning, L's computer screen went black, and the calligraphic "A" and "B" appeared again.

_Please do not do this at this moment. I feel horrible._ he thought, feeling his eyes

_"L. I know where you reside now, for the record. Though my threats might fall on deaf ears. I need_

_to agree with you. I know you're thinking that... "my partner", has gone insane, and I fully agree._

_Anyway... my partner's been depressed, and by that, I mean he's acting selfishly... Augh. I know _

_you don't trust me. I'm supposed to be dead."_

L's eyes narrowed dangerously, and he was tempted to yell at the voice, but he kept his composure.

"That is understandable... A."

He knew for a fact that the voice that was speaking was A's, Beyond Birthday's best friend who had,

undoubtedly, killed himself. In fact, B had found his body on Christmas, and had immediately

informed him.

_"Ha ha ha. Oh. I've gotta go. See you."_

L nodded, wishing that the boy he knew was on the other line would answer the question that was

spinning around in his mind: was his companion depressed because of him, or was it a decoy for

something else?

A was so much more calm than B. B wanted nothing more to throw L down, and fight. Fight until

eventually, L's blood stained the carpet, and he could hardly stand. It had happened before, so who

said it couldn't possibly happen again?

At this, he found himself grinning.

Solemnly, he found himself remembering B's grin.

B's freakish, lop-sided grin which showed the insanity that would, inevitably, swirl in currents through

his veins.

Demon's veins.

Demon's eyes.

L had always notised something different about B's eyes, and even the boy himself had spoken of

them as if they were a curse. Indeed, they must've been. He was unable to remember any specific

times, except for once when he came upon the boy calmly sitting in front of a mirror, only an hour

after he'd discovered A's body.

He'd asked, 'What colour are my eyes?'

L, at first, didn't let himself respond. B was persistent. He knew he'd ask again. This time, he didn't,

as if the question had been rhetorical. Maybe it had been.

A year later, B had turned up missing.

His stuff wasn't in his room when L and Linda checked, and whenever they searched the court-yard,

they found grim words engraved into the wall: "I'm not finished, but for now... Goodbye, Lawliet. You are

depressed and you have won, and yet I have lost and I feel glee."

The words hadn't made sense up until now.

L had given up trying to decipher them, but now that he knew, he felt more determined.

He felt his head reeling with pain, and his chest soar with spasms, which finally wracked his body.

He tried to ignore it, but it didn't work, and when he saw the screen with the two letters, he began

gasping for breath in disbelief and fear.

"L?! What's going on?!"

Even though he heard Watari's cry, L's efforts to get back onto his feet were failing. He didn't realise

he was sweating, or that he'd just experienced another coughing fit, this time irregular. This time,

the fit produced a drop of blood, which he swallowed, clenching his teeth to hold back a howl of

pain.

The coughing didn't stop.

It wouldn't.

He hadn't figured out that he was on the floor until he felt the cool tiles beneath his long, pale fingers,

now stained with blood. Each time he coughed (or, more of, choked), a bloody pleghm was released,

creating a small puddle on his hands, which dripped down on all sides.

His pupils flicked to the sides, uncontrollably.

Pain.

Pain blossomed everywhere in his chest, and he closed his eyes, letting out a long sigh which would

welcome unconsciousness.

The last thing he heard before everything faded was, "You've got a long life to live, Lawliet."

It was the voice with the Irish accent.

B's voice.


End file.
